


Bound and Determined

by sariane



Series: The Second Most Dangerous Man in SHIELD [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, F/F, Femslash, Post - Scandal in Belgravia, Pre-Avengers canon, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-02
Updated: 2012-12-02
Packaged: 2017-11-17 13:55:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/552281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sariane/pseuds/sariane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Black Widow is sent to kill Irene Adler. Natasha decides to team up with her instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place in the same Avengers/Sherlock universe from Shot in the Dark and is intended as a prequel for the next full-length installment. You don't have to read Shot in the Dark before this, but it will fill in some gaps. I've borrowed various ideas and concepts from both the original Sherlock Holmes mysteries and Marvel comics, as usual. Enjoy!
> 
> Contains spoilers for series two of Sherlock.
> 
> Trigger Warnings:  
> Please let me know if I've missed anything.  
> -Implied off-screen sex, BDSM themes, etc. (equal to A Scandal in Belgravia).  
> -Mention of off-screen minor character suicide.  
> -Minor character death (spoilers: it’s just the bad guys).  
> -Minor gore.  
> -Violent action scenes featuring various weapons and hand-to-hand fighting.

The handcuffs are cold on Natasha's skin. She doesn't strain against them; she knows she can get out of them in a heartbeat when the time comes. For now, she hides a threatening smirk and shakes her hair from her eyes. She doesn't have any weapons on her, just in case, but her body always has been her greatest weapon.

Adler walks into the room. Her eyes are bright and sparkling as she twirls a whip around in one hand. Natasha sees something more in her eyes. She's terrified.

Natasha twists against the handcuffs, knowing that her cover has been blown. She stops when Adler turns and steadily points a gun at her.

"Have you been naughty, Widow?" she says in choppy Russian.

"I thought that was _your_ job," Natasha sneers, freezing in place.

"You consider -- you think you are very clever," Adler says, stumbling over the words, "Who sent you?"

"Who says anyone sent me?" Natasha replies after a moment. "What if I just wanted a night off?" Adler shakes her head a little. Her hair has been cut and died and she's wearing contact lenses, but Natasha recognizes her from the photographs.

"I am not stupid, you know," Adler starts, stepping forward, but she is, because that's when Natasha strikes. She kicks her legs up and wraps them around Adler's neck.

"Oh, yes you are," Natasha says, even though the gun is still pointed at her. "I can snap your neck like this," she smirks.

"Well, I knew we would get here eventually," Adler laughs, looking pointedly between Natasha's thighs and smirking. Natasha knows what she's doing, trying to disarm her, to charm away the fear and danger. "Oh, come on, kill me, then. You're no fun."

She stares at Irene Adler, red lipstick and dark eyes sparkling up at her, and swallows.

"What if I wasn't lying," Natasha says slowly, switching to English.

"But you're the Black Widow." Adler licks her lips. "You're always lying."

Natasha closes her eyes for a moment, remembering the smell of blood, of smoke, burning in her nostrils and seeping into her lungs. She can almost hear the screams.

She opens her eyes and takes a deep, slow breath.

"What if I'm tired of lying?" she continues, "what if I want to try something new?"

"Well, my dear," Adler says, shifting away quickly like an animal from a trap as Natasha releases her. She lowers the gun slowly. "You've come to the right place."

*

They make a great team.

"This is the list," Natasha says one day in their expensive hotel room, holding out a piece of paper with thirteen names written on it in perfect handwriting.

"I can handle these," Irene says, taking the pen from her hand and checking off nine of the names. "I'll pull some strings."

"I'll make sure the rest hear of your services," Natasha replies, taking back the list once Irene nods. She pulls a lighter from her pocket and watches it go up in flames. She drops it into the wastebasket and stomps out the fire before it spreads.

"Good girl," Irene nods, sifting through the other papers on the hotel desk. "I'll need a few things, though." Natasha watches as Irene chews on a perfect scarlet lip, studying the profiles Natasha has painstakingly built up for their little project. "Work expenses." She meets Natasha's eye and smiles apologetically. "You know how it is." They have next to no money, but that isn't anything Natasha can't handle until they can blackmail enough from Irene's clientele.

"Make your own list," Natasha replies, nodding, "and I'll handle it."

*

"Here," Irene says, holding out her mobile and collapsing into a plush chair in their second hotel room. Natasha doesn't like this hotel as much. The door locks are too fancy and there are too many mirrors in the corridors; it's hard to sneak around without raising suspicion.

Natasha wordlessly takes the mobile and unlocks it, scrolling through the pictures Irene had taken. "Hmm," she says, "he really left his briefcase open like that?"

"He brought something," Irene shrugs from the chairs. "Why? Do you think someone's catching on to us?"

"Possibly. We should leave tonight."

"Do I have time for a shower?" Irene asks, untying her sheer dressing gown. Natasha looks away instinctively, ignoring Irene's knowing smirk.

"It'll take me some time to pack," Natasha answers. "You can--" her head snaps up. There's someone standing outside their door.

"Where would you like to get dinner tonight, dear?" Natasha asks in German, opening a drawer in the desk to pass Irene her gun. She's already slipped into her clothes and is heading towards the window.

"What about that little place with the candles?" Irene replies, winking at her for luck before ducking out onto the balcony.

"Hmm," Natasha says, pulling a dagger from its sheath and glancing out the window to make sure Irene has slipped away. She steels herself as the door is kicked in, men with guns storming their room. "I'm in the mood for something a little more exciting."

*

Natasha slips into their safe apartment and is welcomed with a knife to the throat.

" _Jersey_ ," she whispers, and the knife disappears.

"Oh, thank god," Irene sighs, flipping on the lights. She lets a hand linger on Natasha's shoulder for a moment. "I thought you were--"

"Have a little faith," Natasha smirks, but it doesn't linger. She can taste blood on her lip. Judging by Irene's stare, she's noticed it, too.

"Who were they?" Irene asks, raising a hand ready to wipe away the blood. Natasha's keen eyes pick out the very moment she hesitates and draws back, trying to seem nonchalant as she returns to the couch and closes the book she'd been reading. Natasha notices that she's only on the second page.

A few seconds pass and a heavy silence falls over them. Natasha slips out of her shoes. "Men from my past," she says simply, suppressing a shiver and a memory.

Irene just stands, feet away, and wrings her hands.

"I'll make us tea," she says, looking everywhere but at Natasha. "We'll talk."

*

Natasha sets the newspaper down next to the breakfast Irene had made for her.

"Reichenbach hero proved fake, commits suicide," Natasha translates the headline slowly into English for Irene; she stiffens and looks up from her toast. "Early on June 15th, Internet star and detective Sherlock Holmes jumped to his death in London, England," she begins to read. The article is short. Irene doesn’t take her eyes off Natasha for the long minute it takes her to read it, the words falling softly from her mouth.

When she's finished, Natasha sets the paper down and lets her hand hang hesitantly over Irene's shoulder. Neither of them says a word for another long moment. "Irene," she starts, not sure of what to say.

"Moriarty's dead," Irene whispers, defying all expectations. A smile creeps up on her scarlet lips, slow and poisonous. Natasha's heart flutters in her chest. "He must be."

"Jim Moriarty," Natasha repeats, the name rolling off her tongue. "Oh," she says. Her smile grows to match Irene's. "Consulting criminal. And, with no one to take his place…"

"Perfect," Irene says triumphantly, leaning over to kiss Natasha's hand. "Oh, this is just what we've been waiting for."

*

"Bad news," Irene says late one evening when she returns to the apartment. Usually, there's a spark in her eyes and a spring in her step, like she's coming off a high. Tonight, there's nothing.

"Are you okay?" Natasha says instantly. Her heart sinks in her chest when Irene shakes her head.

"It's not me, it's not," she starts, and then pulls out her phone. “I don’t suppose you know much about mutants?" She holds out the cell phone for Natasha to take.

"What the hell," she says without thinking, "this is -- they have a base? This is our competition? A bunch of freaks in a -- a castle somewhere?"

Irene's mouth twists unpleasantly. Natasha expects her to smile, but she doesn't, collapsing into the stiff armchair.

"We can handle them," Natasha says confidently. "I'll find them. You'll tip off some important g-man somewhere. We'll bring it all crashing down around their ears." She nods. "We'll be careful. We're always careful." Irene smiles and nods, but Natasha can tell that she's anything but reassured.

*

"We're going to Warsaw," Natasha says as she shuts the door to their newest hotel room. "For a few weeks. Until things quiet down." Irene looks up from the television (she's watching some trashy soap opera with the subtitles on again) and raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow.

"Are you alright?" she says, her composure visibly shaken once she realizes that Natasha is bleeding from a cut on her forehead. She gets up from her bed and rushes over to retrieve the first aid kit from her suitcase. Natasha ducks into the posh bathroom while she's busy, wincing as she steps on her sprained ankle. She'll have to hide it -- pathetic dogs like these can sense any kind of weakness -- but there are no wearing heels for awhile. She shouldn't have been so careless or so vulnerable. It was stupid.

She turns on the sink to wash the sweat and blood from her hands, scrubbing at the skin, recalling the feel of snapping one, two, three men's necks and falling on the pavement ( _"Bravo," boomed the man's voice, and she didn't smile when he congratulated her on her progress_.), nails biting into the dirt underneath her palms ( _"No," came the screaming as she lay on the ground, "no, you stupid girl, your foot must go_ straight _back."_ ), the glint of a cold knife as it slashed through the air in front of her ( _"Damn, you're good," he laughed, and she felt a chill run up her spine as he brushed his right hand over her cheek--_

" _Natasha_ ," Irene says in a firm voice, setting bandages and antiseptic on the bathroom counter. Natasha goes a bit breathless and meets her eyes. "Come here," she says, softer now, as she wets a washcloth and holds it up to Natasha's head.

She's gentler than Natasha could imagine -- she can't remember anyone ever purposefully touching her without force before -- as she cleans the wound, even bothering to warn her that the antiseptic will sting. Natasha stares down at her feet so she doesn't have to make eye contact, stares at the dirt on her shoes and Irene's bare feet on the cold tile floor.

"What happened?" she finally asks after a moment. Not ' _Why is this happening?'_ , not ' _Why Warsaw?'_ , not ' _Why?'_

"Four men cornered me," she shrugs. "I got a bit banged up." Irene sighs, as if Natasha is some troublemaking child. She peels the backing from the bandage with her painted red fingernails. It goes on smoothly and she lets her hands linger to brush Natasha's hair back.

"A bit?" she says under her breath, and Natasha flinches back minutely. She looks down at her hands, the nails still dirty and disgusting. Irene makes a clicking noise with her tongue. "They were following you, weren't they," she says suddenly. "They're after the both of us." Natasha shrugs again.

"Take it as a compliment," she says, still staring down.

"Natasha--" Irene starts.

"It's okay," Natasha replies suddenly, looking up with the inexplicable need to explain herself, to comfort Irene. She meets her eyes for a moment before looking quickly away again.

"You're protecting me," Irene says, sounding vaguely surprised. "You're so--" she stops.

Natasha's mouth goes dry. She risks a glance up.

"Thank you," Irene says, leaning forward to kiss her gently.

It lasts a moment, a beautiful, glass moment, delicate and about to break over them both. Natasha pushes her away with her forearm, and clenches her hands to her heaving chest when Irene steps back.

"You don't owe me anything," Natasha whispers as she lets her heart sink back down.

"No, never," Irene replies, " _I want this._ "

*

Natasha wants it, wants it like she can't believe. That's why she says no.

She refuses to look at Irene for most of the train ride. Their elbows occasionally brush for no reason at all and she feels helplessly drunk on it. She can't help it, can't help wanting and wishing, but she knows how this will end. It's not worth it. It's never worth it.

She gets two coffees from another car and feels her heart beat out of her chest with trepidation as she waits for the woman fumbling with her change. She hopes desperately that Irene will still be there when she gets back to their seats. Hope. She's not used to that, not used to feeling or really wanting anything like this. It's terrifying, far more terrifying than anything else she's ever faced. She doesn't know how to deal with that.

"Thanks," Irene says idly in English, accent British and out of place in the train. She's careful to let her fingers slip over Natasha's as she takes her coffee. Natasha flinches uncharacteristically, almost spilling it over the two of them.

"Shh," Natasha replies, glancing subtly around. "So. What would you like to do when we get there?"

Irene's smile sends a shiver down her spine.

*

Warsaw was supposed to be safe. Warsaw _should have been_ safe, Natasha tells herself, _but it wasn't_.

It's her fault when she comes back from getting groceries -- a fucking _grocery run_ , she's a trained assassin and her downfall is _groceries_ \-- to find the apartment empty and the door knocked down.

"Irene?" she calls, voice almost shaking as she holds the gun in her steady hand. They're long gone, of course. She curses in Russian, cursing her own stupidity and kicking a turned over chair in anger.

"Oh," she breathes as something falls from between the cushions. Irene's phone. She unlocks it in a moment, scrolling through the recent messages (nothing new), and then the pictures. There are six new ones she hasn't seen yet. The last is a little blurry, but it's simple.

It's a map.

_She found their base_ , Natasha blinks, memorizing the map in an instant. She re-locks the phone and slips it into her pocket. All of the papers on which they'd drawn out their plans are gone, of course, every piece of the puzzle they'd painstakingly built together.

Irene had been too eager. She had found the mutants.

And they had found her.


	2. Chapter 2

Irene waits for Natasha in a clearing, sitting daintily upon a fallen log with her ankles crossed. She tries to smile when Natasha pulls up in the car and gets out to meet her. Her hair is wild and her eyes are blazing as she heads straight for Irene. It's impossible to miss the way her hand hovers over her gun.

"How did you know I'd stop here?" she asks suspiciously, looking around the clearing.

Irene closes her eyes for a moment, trying to focus. " _Jersey_ ," she says quietly. When she opens her eyes, Natasha has taken a surprised step back, giving her room. Irene takes a deep breath. "I'll explain on the way." Natasha takes a look from the black smoke pouring into the sky to Irene.

  
"You better," she mutters, muttering something in Russian that Irene can't quite make out.

*

"All of our work, ruined!" Natasha swears, hitting her hand lightly against the steering wheel. Irene watches her out of the corner of her eye as she drums her fingers against the gear shift, staring blankly out at the road whizzing past them. She steels herself as Natasha hesitates, mouth half open, before finally asking, "You're positive you're okay?" Irene looks in the wing mirror and presses gently at one of the yellowing bruises on her cheekbone.

"Their leader is down," Irene says slowly, "those men were professionals…they'll have taken care of it. All of that power, all of those connections…" she trails off, looking away from the mirror. "You have the phone?"

"Of course," Natasha says, pulling it out of her pocket. Irene sighs a little when it's in her hand again.

"There's always blackmail," Irene suggests breezily, "for now, for starters, at least, and then… Well, think of it this way; there's no one left in our way."

Natasha considers carefully. "It does seem to be a pretty big shortcut. Too easy. You're sure there isn't anyone else ready to take up Moriarty's legacy? These people usually have protégés, you know." From the way she stares at the road with her face a careful blank mask, Irene would bet she knows this firsthand.

"I'm sure," Irene lies, "how many months has it been, anyways? It's time we move up in the world." Natasha sends her a tiny, encouraging smile and Irene puts a hand over hers on the gear shift.

"Although," Natasha adds, "we should lie low for a bit, don't you think?"

"Oh, yes," she smiles, "yes, I do."

*

They head out of Romania as quickly as they can, avoiding cities, ditching and stealing cars, never staying in one place for too long. Natasha is paranoid to such a point that it's an obsession, but Irene understands. She has dreams at night, terrible dreams where they're caught and killed and tortured. She always wakes to Natasha's gentle, soothing touch. She holds her like she's afraid someone is going to snatch Irene away. She cards her fingers through Irene's dyed blonde hair and half-sings, half-mutters a lullaby to her in Russian. It's clear that she doesn't know all of the words, but Irene doesn't ask.

Natasha doesn't ask about the dreams, either. She’s thankful. Sometimes it's about him, Sherlock, hidden away in a London apartment one moment and running for his life the next. Sometimes she sees Moriarty, too. Those are the real nightmares.

The worst, however, are the ones that leave her screaming silently into her pillow, waking up with the sheets tangled around her and her skin sticky in a cold sweat. Those are the ones about her and Natasha.

One moment, they're running down an alleyway, hand in hand, giggling. The next, she's caught in a stranglehold and all she can see is Natasha – hair like flames around her face as she falls to the pavement, dead.

Sometimes, it's a bullet to the chest. Sometimes, her neck is twisted. Sometimes, she just laughs and laughs and spiders crawl out of her mouth.

Irene tries not to think about it.

*

Istanbul is nice for the first few days. They get lost in the crowds of people and Natasha nearly breaks the fingers of an attempted pickpocket, but it's relatively quiet and nice. They find a cheap hotel room, one bed, with crappy lighting and peeling paint on the walls.

Irene sits on the bed and blows on the red nail varnish drying on her nails, staring up at the ceiling and waiting for Natasha to finish with the shower. She hears the water shut off and the door creak open.

"Where do you want to go next?" Natasha calls from the bathroom. Irene imagines how she must look, glistening and damp from the shower, toweling her beautiful hair dry. "We could head down to Egypt. I know a man in Alexandria."

"I was thinking India," Irene replies lazily, staring up at the ceiling.

"Do you know anyone there?" Natasha calls back.

"No," she shrugs, "but isn't that the point?"

Natasha emerges from the bathroom at that, defying all of Irene's imaginings. She's dry, wrapped in a towel, her hair carelessly dripping wet. Irene stares unashamedly. She can't help it, she _wants_. Natasha blushes and looks away -- of course she'd notice -- but that doesn't stop her staring.

"You're beautiful, you know," Irene says quietly as Natasha rummages around in her bag for some fresh clothes.

"I've heard that one before," Natasha mutters, somewhat bitterly.

"No," Irene shakes her head. "I really mean it. You are…absolutely beautiful….in every way." Natasha ducks her head.

Irene takes the moment to slide her feet to the floor and pad across the worn carpet to Natasha's side. "I mean it," she says softly.

"This isn't about…" Natasha takes a deep breath and stares down into her messy suitcase to gather her thoughts. Irene's eyes follow a bead of water as it drips from a strand of her hair to her pale shoulder. "You don't owe me for protecting you, or for _anything_."

"I know I don't," Irene says. It's only a small lie, and it doesn't count, not when they're talking about this.

"You don't feel…obligated?" Natasha glances up at her for a second, long enough for Irene to see her eyes blown wide and dark.

"No," she whispers. She lets her voice fall deep in her throat, "I want this. I want _you_."

Natasha meets her eyes properly. Irene takes a deep breath, steeling herself and feeling ridiculous for the way her heart is beating in her chest. She wasn't lying -- Natasha is beautiful, especially like this, unguarded and exposed -- although she wishes she was lying through her teeth, like she normally does. It would be easier to lie.

Irene hesitates, so it's Natasha who leans forward and closes the space between them. She presses her lips to Irene's gently, as though she's afraid of breaking her. It's so gentle and hesitant, so unlike anything she's experienced in such long while, that it tears Irene apart.

"Is this okay?" Irene asks when they pull apart. Natasha kisses her again, quick and dirty, and pulls back with a smirk.

"This is perfect," she says. She's glowing, a mischievous glint in her eyes, like she has so many plans for them. Irene would bet that she has twice as many.

Irene dives forward this time to kiss her for a long minute, grinding up against Natasha until she pulls away with a gasp.

"Bed," Irene says and Natasha nods, an uncontained laugh bursting from her lips.

"Yes," she gasps, "yes, _please_."

*

They make it through Iran just fine, but it's when Irene is back in Pakistan that the nightmares begin again. She remembers running here before, foolishly getting caught in Karachi (How her heart had raced hopefully when her phone had beeped in the heat of the chase, and then sunk again: _With love, from Jim._ ). Waiting to die. She remembers Sherlock, sword in hand, telling her to run.

That's what she dreams of during the first night that she stops to sleep in some hidden spot with Natasha. Sherlock, running with her. Sherlock, dead on the pavement outside the hospital. Sherlock, very much alive and laughing as Mycroft calls to ask him how Irene Adler is alive and well and running across the world with the Black Widow.

The dreams don't last long, however, before it's her and Natasha running for their lives instead. Natasha runs behind her, urging her on, until she's not there and Irene turns to see her lying on the asphalt, red hair pooling out around her. Irene trips and falls next to her, screaming silently as she realizes that it's blood.

There is an arrow buried in her chest.

Irene opens her eyes to see Natasha above her, eyes filled with concern. "It's okay," Natasha says instantly, smoothing her hand over Irene's forehead, "shh, it's okay, you're safe."

"Are you--" Irene starts, sitting up suddenly to look at Natasha. "You're--?"

Natasha looks at her for a moment in confusion. "I’m safe," she says hesitantly. "We're both safe. It's okay."

Irene falls into Natasha's arms and drifts back off to sleep.

*

Irene pulls Natasha by the hand through the marketplace, ducking behind the cloth wall of a stall and into a gap between two houses. It's empty, so she leans down to kiss Natasha against the brick wall, drawing a gasp out of her.

"Here?" Natasha breathes when Irene pulls away. She smirks in reply.

"On your--"

" _Have you seen these women?_ " The man's voice is muffled through the cloth between their little alleyway and the marketplace stall, but Irene can still make out every word in Hindi. Natasha stiffens beside her, gripping Irene's hand painfully.

" _No, no,_ " the shopkeeper replies, and then says something Irene can barely translate. Language was never her strong point. From the way Natasha moves to shield her, it's not good.

"Move," she whispers to Irene, who begins to back up. There's barely any space in the alleyway, but she turns, feeling Natasha's nails digging into her wrist.

" _Thank you_ ," she hears the first man say, his voice with the barest trace of a Russian accent, and Natasha turns to push her forward.

"Run!" she says. Irene listens to her and the spike of adrenaline in her body and tears down the tight alleyway. The slap of heavy shoes follows them, but she doesn’t hesitate and look back. It's not long before they reach a dead end, with nothing but houses on either side.

Natasha stands in front of Irene, gun pointed steadily at the men, and Irene wishes for her own, hidden away in their new hotel room.

"How did you find us?" she asks in English, and they spit back at her in Russian, too quick and too low for Irene to make out. The next few moments are a blur of foreign words and the pounding of Irene's heart. She closes her eyes for a moment -- just a moment -- and then pulls down on Natasha's shoulders, shouting, "down!" as a gun goes off. It hits the wood behind them and splinters.

Within moments Natasha is on them, kicking their feet out from under them and sliding their guns across the ground towards Irene. She holds one carefully pointed at the ground as Natasha takes out the last man with a few astutely placed punches.

Natasha stands up, flips her long, red hair from her eyes, and wipes her mouth with her hand. Irene stares.

"I'd have you against that wall, right now," she says, fighting to keep her tone steady. Her voice shakes a little regardless, betraying her to Natasha, who shakes her head. There's the barest hint of a smile on the corner of her mouth.

"Later," she promises, looking around. "Someone will have heard the shot. There will be back-up at the other end of the alley." She looks up and around, and Irene follows her gaze.

"Oh, no," she shakes her head as Natasha tugs on a drainpipe to test its stability, "I am not climbing _that_."

Natasha laughs and points upwards.

"Ladder," she supplies, pointing at a fire escape that doesn't look much sturdier than the pipe. Irene sighs in relief as Natasha scales the pipe first, looking back over the bodies strewn across the alleyway.

"So close," she whispers, _"too close_."

*

The theory is that they won't be recognized in Hong Kong. Of course, that was the theory in Dhaka, Nagpur, and Istanbul, too. Irene can't understand it. There are just so many _people_. It should make find them harder, but she's starting to think that it makes it easier.

This time, Irene is walking down a street with Natasha, giggling as she points out a restaurant across the street.

"That's where I showed him the photos," she explains, "He begged, I remember, 'Ms. Adler, I have a wife and two children! You will take all of my money! What am I supposed to tell them?' I just smiled and said, 'I'm sorry, Mr. Li, but I have another appointment. I'll have that cheque by Friday,' and left. My next appointment, of course, was across the street, with Mrs. Li herself." She looks at the restaurant nostalgically. "Lovely couple."

Natasha chuckles a little, and then swallows it, staring off into the crowd. Her brow furrows suddenly.

"How?" she asks through gritted teeth. "How the hell do they keep finding us?"

Irene takes a deep breath and prepares to run, but not before she envisions Natasha, lying dead on the ground, in her mind's eye.

"Come on," Natasha says, grabbing Irene's hand, "Let's run."

Irene catches a glimpse of the people following them as they round the corner; the bulky, Russian men stand out in the crowd just as they do. But it's not just them. Irene thinks she recognizes someone else along the side, face set in a scowl, staring right at her.

Natasha turns to run down an alleyway and Irene stops, images flashing in her mind of the people waiting just around the corner, guns at the ready. Irene pulls on Natasha's wrist and yanks her away from the escape.

"No," Irene says. Natasha twists away and breaks their hands apart. She stares at Irene with fire in her eyes.

"I can--" she starts, but Irene snaps, "no!" and grabs for her wrist.

"Trust me," she says, looking straight at Natasha. "They're -- they're herding us in there. There are -- men, there. This way," she urges, pulling Natasha away. Natasha stares at Irene for one distrustful moment more before nodding.

"You'll explain later," she says, suspicion coating her tone as Irene leads them away from the danger.

Her heart sinks in her chest as they run.

*

"Okay," Natasha says after she shuts the door to their crappy, cheap new hotel room and turns on the lights. She goes over to one of the beds, kicks off her shoes, and sits down.

Irene hesitates by the door.

"Okay." Natasha crosses her arms. "Explain." Irene takes a deep breath and moves to sit down on the other bed across from Natasha. The moment she sits, Natasha gets up to pace the floor in front of the curtained windows. "You knew there were men in that alleyway. How could you know? Are you with them? Are you…are you from the Red Room?" Natasha stops and turns to stare at her, hand twitching over the gun at her hip.

"No," Irene says. Her voice shakes, she can't help it. "I'm, um." Natasha keeps staring Irene in disbelief. She never stutters, never loses her composure, never lets Natasha take the reins of the conversation like this.

"You're what? A British spy? Working for whom? Mycroft Holmes, that son of a bitch," she swears in Russian, something Irene has only seen her do a few times.

"It's not like that," she replies. "I'm a mutant."

The way that Natasha looks at her then is almost worse than before.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long to finish. I made the mistake of trying to finish this fic during NaNoWriMo. I hope you enjoy the last chapter!

"I'm psychic," Irene says, as though she's talking about the weather.

"Oh," Natasha replies. She deflates a little in relief. "That's all, then."

"That's all?" Irene repeats. "That's all?"

"I thought," Natasha starts, and then stops. She looks at Irene, sitting on the bed with her perfectly manicured hands in her lap, and reads her posture. She looks guarded with her shoulders pulled up, but her eyes tell Natasha that she's utterly terrified. "I thought," she starts, and then changes her mind. "I suspected that you were…controlling me somehow," she says. Natasha takes a deep breath and then lets it out. "I've never…"

"Oh," Irene exhales. There's a pause. "Oh," she says again, eyes widening, and she finally gets it. "I would never --"

'I know," Natasha replies, but she looks away and scrunches her brow. "Psychic?"

"Since I was a teenager," Irene starts, "that's when it usually manifests. You see, I get flashes of the future. Dreams, sometimes, although that's difficult because of, well," she looks away sheepishly, "because of the nightmares." Natasha nods, thinking back to Irene's panicked expression as she asked if they were safe. It makes sense.

"How does it work, exactly?" she asks.

"It's strange," Irene shrugs, "I don't know. A tip here or there about what's going to happen. Sometimes it's people, what they're doing, where they are. It's not always useful, and when it is, it's usually hard to get people to understand."

"Does everything you see come true?"

Irene visibly shivers. "No. I -- uh, you and I are safe," she explains, "and that's not what I saw happening today."

Natasha walks over to Irene and sits beside her on the bed. "Thank you," she whispers, "for telling me." Irene leans forward to kiss her on the forehead. Natasha lays down with her head in Irene's lap and lets her run her red fingernails through her hair, knowing it will make Irene feel better.

When Irene falls asleep that night, Natasha sneaks out to steal a laptop from one of the other rooms and stays up all night Googling mutants.

*

"Is that why they kidnapped you?" Natasha asks suddenly when they're on the ferry to the mainland. She has her hair tied back against the wind and sunglasses big enough to pass her off as a tourist.

Irene starts a little and looks around self-consciously. No one is paying them any attention.

"Perhaps," she shrugs. "They were working on something. I'm not sure."

"What were they working on?" Natasha asks curiously. Irene hasn't told her a thing since she escaped.

"They were…working on something," she says slowly, "something to enhance mutations." Natasha whistles out of her teeth.

"They had their fingers in a lot of pies," she replies in a low voice.

"I bet there are a lot of people out there looking for someone else to turn to," Irene smiles. Natasha drums her fingers against the railing of the deck. "Who else is there to go to, now?"

Natasha stares off into the horizon, off into the distant line between sea and sky. "I think this vacation is over."

*

Natasha wakes up to the soft sounds of the waking city coming through the glass of the window. She cracks an eye open to watch the rain sprinkle the glass. It rains so much here. Irene is used to it; it doesn't bother her a bit. Natasha, on the other hand, misses snow. It was cold and wet, but it was dependable. She never knows if she should go out for an umbrella or not, now.

She turns over in bed, pulling the covers up to her chin, and stares at Irene. She's asleep on her side, her head resting on one hand, the other curled around the corner of the pillow. Natasha watches her for a moment as she breathes slowly in and out. Silently, she slips out of bed, careful not to brush the handcuffs still attached to the bed posts and rattle Irene awake with the noise.

Natasha shrugs on a robe and goes to stand at the window and watch the rain drip down. She stiffens as she hears Irene's breathing change, signaling that she's awake, despite Natasha's attempts

"I dreamed that you left," Irene says. Her voice echoes through the room. Natasha doesn’t turn around.

"Was it a vision?" she asks.

"You tell me."

It's dawn outside. Natasha unlocks the window and opens it a crack, letting the sounds of the people and cars below filter though. The rain is like a filter, white noise that fills her head and the silence between her and Irene.

"It's not that I want to leave," she starts, picking at the hem of her robe. "We're doing so well." And they are, with plenty of Moriarty's old clients under their -- well, Irene's -- belt.

"It's not me, it's you," Irene says absently, humor in her voice. "You can go. It's okay."

Natasha turns around suddenly to stare Irene in the eye. She looks so unguarded and vulnerable sitting nude under the covers, her hair loose and wild over her shoulders, her nails scarlet against the wrinkled white sheets. Natasha can't look at her for long. She plays with a piece of her red hair and twirls it around a finger as she speaks.

"Just before I met you, I -- you've seen what I can do." Irene nods. "And that's just the beginning. It was my job to do whatever I was told without question. I was a weapon. I _am_ a weapon." Natasha doesn't sit down, but she moves across the room as she speaks, pacing. "They told me to assassinate someone. A doctor. I got in a tight spot, didn't have a way out. Burned a hospital full of children, patients, innocents to the ground. They were," her voice breaks a little, a tiny, nearly imperceptible amount. " _Collateral damage_. And I was okay with that."

She doesn't want to look up and meet the horrified look in Irene's eyes, but she forces herself to, thinking it will ground her and reinforce her decision. It doesn't.

She figures that she must have recoiled somehow and given herself away, because Irene stands up suddenly and reaches for her robe to fight off the chill of the flat.

"I'm sorry," she says, "I didn't mean--"

"It's okay," Natasha waves a hand, "you're only human -- _well_ ," she chuckles halfheartedly. Irene smiles back, but it doesn't meet her eyes. _An eye for an eye_ , she thinks bitterly.

"The way I see it, I owe someone a lot," Natasha continues. "I -- I've killed a lot of people. And for what?"

"For you," Irene responds, "for me. For us. And our future."

Natasha nods impartially.

"I've got a heavy conscience," she mutters.

"It's okay," Irene says, walking over to Natasha and cupping her chin in her hand. "We can work with that."

*

They sleep in the next day, order take-out, and watch dumb made-for-TV-movies in bed. Natasha tries to braid Irene's hair. Irene reads her a few chapters of her latest book. She wonders if Irene is trying to make her feel better, feel wanted and needed, but it doesn't keep her mind off things.

When it gets dark outside their window, Natasha brings out one of her folders and spreads the papers across the rumpled sheets of their bed. She looks up at Irene, hair a tangled mess, robe tied loosely around her, and licks her lips before she speaks.

"Okay," she says in a voice serious and calm. "We need to decide which cases to take."

Irene looks somewhat surprised as Natasha selects a few of her case profiles on potential clients from the pile and hands them over.

"These seem to be the best candidates. A lot of potential, a lot of influence, a lot of money, and very little chance of failure on either of our parts." Natasha watches with baited breath as Irene skims through the papers. She looks troubled as she sets them down. "What's wrong?" Natasha asks as her heart sinks into her stomach. This is how Irene wanted it, wasn't it?

"I thought you were leaving," Irene breaths. "I saw…" She gulps down air. Natasha lays a hand tentatively on her back and pats her awkwardly until Irene forces a smile. She reaches out to take Natasha's hand in her own and squeezes.

"I changed my mind," Natasha says confidently. "So," she adds quickly, "do you see any potential here?" Gesturing at the papers, she watches Irene carefully as she looks from file to file, picture to picture.

"This one," Irene hesitates, "yes, this one, Stane. What does he need help with? Black-market arms dealing?" she squints at Natasha's perfect handwriting. "Corporate strategy. I knew a stock broker," she says absently, "well, I knew what he liked…"

Natasha frowns and takes the paper back, squinting at what he claims to need help with. "Assassination, as well. That one seems a bit dangerous on its own. But, if we're going to advise on corporate matters, we're going to learn some company secrets. And then we'll be at risk if anything goes wrong."

"Shouldn't be too hard," Irene says confidently. "Should it?"

*

The letter is shoved through their mail slot at four in the morning.

Natasha looks up from the book she's trying and failing to concentrate on (Irene is out with a client) and walks over to the door carefully. There's no one there when she opens it, just the empty hallway of their apartment -- flat building. Natasha shuts the door softly and locks it.

She bends down to pick up the letter. It's a plain sheet of A4, British paper, folded in half like a card.

 _Congratulations_ is scrawled on the front in black ballpoint pen. When she opens it carefully, there's a hastily drawn crown and the initials _SH_ below.

She doesn't show it to Irene.

*

Natasha sets down the plans to Baskerville and rubs at her eyes. It's getting late, too late. She glances at the clock. _Irene should be back by now_ , she thinks. _Groceries are going to be the death of us._

She gets up from the desk and begins to shove her things into her suitcase, grabbing a few extra knives along the way to hide on her person. She flips on the television, just in case. It pays to be paranoid.

It's just BBC News reporting on Bigfoot sightings in South America, so she tunes out for a moment as she considers the possible situations Irene could have gotten herself into. Kidnappers would ask for a ransom within the next hour, Mycroft would have their flat surrounded already, and any common mugger would be too incompetent to deal with the skills Natasha has taught Irene over the past few months. It narrows it down, but Natasha doesn't like the other possibilities.

_"-- and CEO of Stark Industries, has reportedly been kidnapped by a terrorist group known as the Ten Rings --"_

Natasha's head snaps up.

Irene chooses this moment to burst through the door, cheeks red, with two grocery bags clutched in her hands.

"I just saw --"

"What took you so long?" Natasha snaps. She can hear her nervous heartbeat thumping away between her ears.

"What?" Irene frowns. She sets the bags down and begins to browse through them, picking out the milk and eggs to set into the refrigerator. "Sorry, I--"

_"Moments ago, Obadiah Stane released a statement on behalf of Stark Industries."_

They turn to the television in unison. Natasha grabs the remote control to turn up the volume.

"I know I speak for all of us at Stark Industries when I say that the events that have transpired are tragic," Stane says into a microphone, "those who are responsible will be held to justice." He looks right into the camera.

"Shit," Natasha swears. "We have to --"

"They're coming," Irene whispers, gripping the edge of the kitchen table with white knuckles, her gaze focused far away. "They're going to --"

The door bursts open with a crash as it is kicked in. Natasha turns around in time to see something pointed at her before she freezes, paralyzed, and falls to the floor.

She tries to move, tries to blink or kick or _something_ , but she can't. All she can do is listen to Irene's screams of protest, just out of her line of sight.

Someone presses a cloth over her mouth, and Natasha's world goes blank.

*

The world comes back to her slowly, in frustrating pieces and snatches of sound and light. There's florescence, then gasoline, then gunshots and the sickening iron scent of blood.

First, there is nothing but light, then the sounds of something, first harsh and screeching, then low and haunting. She stares up through the fog over her vision, up to the stars dancing on the ceiling above, and tries to think.

It's a violin.

Natasha springs up and gets jolted back instantly. Her wrist screams; she's handcuffed to the wooden leg of a couch. Natasha moves her wrist, testing the cuffs, and is about to escape when someone comes rushing towards her. She crouches up on the couch, ready to spring at the man if he comes near her.

He's small in stature, with mousy grey-brown hair and a gentle firmness to the lines around his eyes.

"Hold on," he says apologetically, "I'll get that, I don't know what Sherlock thinks he's doing." The man bends down, retrieves a key from his pocket, and begins to unlock her hand. "Be careful, you have a concuss --"

Natasha jumps on him, forcing him to the floor and twisting his arm around his back. He lets out a yelp, and Natasha grinds her knee into his back.

"Where am I?" she growls into his ear as he gasps for breath.

"221B Baker Street," a deep voice supplies. Natasha looks up and meets Sherlock Holmes in the eye.

"Don't hurt him, Nat," Irene says next to him.

"Yes, please don’t hurt him," the man who she now sees is John Watson mutters into the carpet. Natasha releases him and gets unsteadily to her feet. She can't focus, can't stand up straight.

"Concussion, you said?" she says faintly, forcing herself to keep standing rather than fall back onto the couch, even though she wants to. "What happened?" she demands. Sherlock and Irene exchange a look that sends Natasha's stomach twisting into knots.

"It seems you got a little in over your head," Sherlock says with a smirk, twirling his violin around carelessly in his fingers. He steps up closer to Natasha without a second thought, confidence eking from every pore. "I called in a few favors. Took down the assassins sent to kill you. Amateurs, really, although they had some nice tech," he laughs.

"Sherlock," John protests.

"Sorry, nice black-market, _dirty_ tech, as John keeps reminding us."

"We weren't in over our heads," Natasha mutters, crossing her arms defensively. Irene doesn't say a word.

"Really?" Sherlock snorts, "So, you were all tied up and thrown in the back of a truck because you _wanted_ to be?" Irene clears her throat pointedly and Sherlock's composure falls, just for a moment.

"That's more like it, dear," she says, finally moving from his side to Natasha's. Natasha flinches away from her. She retreats to one of the chairs in front of the fireplace. She sits on her feet, knees gathered up neatly in front of her, and looks away from Irene. Silence falls in the air, thick and heavy as Irene stares at Natasha from across the room.

"I'll just get some tea, shall I?" John says awkwardly, and leaves for the kitchen. Although she doesn’t look up, Natasha can hear Irene leave the room as quietly as possible, her bare feet making soft noises as she follows John Watson into the other room.

"The Black Widow," Sherlock says softly, taking the seat in front of her. He leans forward, folding his hands under his chin and staring at her like a puzzle. "I've wanted to meet you for a very long time," he continues, voice low enough that it can't be heard from the other room. "You're the world's newest consulting criminal."

"You mean, Irene and I," Natasha says carefully, keeping her voice low and flat.

"No, I don't," Sherlock says coolly, eyes flicking over her. "Sexual relationship aside, you are the one very much in charge here," he snaps.

"That's none of your business," she sneers.

"Oh, is it?" he chuckles. "You're tired, far more tired and strained than Irene. You have paper cuts. You've been doing a lot of reading, but not books -- your flat didn't have many books, except for a few stacked on Irene's nightstand. So, files, probably the ones Irene snuck out under her coat when we went back for your belongings. Now, Irene, she's been doing a lot of her work lately, late nights, and carefully chosen clients -- at least, more carefully chosen than in the past. Meanwhile, you haven't been seen in weeks, _months_ , even. You've been holed up, working, strategizing."

"It's not that impressive," she says, "if it's obvious to begin with."

"Really?" Sherlock shakes his head. "Then, _you_ impress me." He sweeps his hands out, a challenge.

Natasha opens her mouth, as if she's going to speak, and then jumps out of her chair, springing through the air to grab the bow of Sherlock's violin and hold it firmly against his neck. He struggles in vain for a moment before going limp and silent, with only the sound of Natasha's heavy breathing to fill the air.

Finally, Sherlock starts laughing.

"Okay," he says, "very clever. I shouldn't have expected you to fight with words. It's not your style, is it?"

"It's not," she says, tightening her grip on his throat for a second before releasing him. She returns to her chair but doesn't give back the bow. She twirls it around in her fingers, watching his eyes follow it as it moves around in her grip.

"This isn't your style at all," Sherlock continues. "Sitting on the sidelines, telling others what to do, letting them do all the proper dirty work. You're the Black Widow; you're the star of the show. You should be out there, taking the orders, moving in for the kill. You're a spy. You're not Jim Moriarty."

"I could be," she says levelly.

"Yes, and so could his precious sniper, but someone got to him first," Sherlock says bitterly. Natasha tilts her head to the side.

"You're disappointed," she observes.

"Very good," he says sarcastically, "perhaps you _do_ have some potential."

"Okay. I can't be Jim Moriarty, I admit it." Natasha stands up and tosses the bow in the air, spins it around a few times, and throws it back to Sherlock. He catches it in one hand and sets it on the table next to his violin.

"I know."  
 

"But maybe I don't want to be."

She stares into the next room, where John and Irene are caught in their own quiet conversation. John seems mad as he sets teacups on trays, and even shakes his head a few times in frustration. Irene is quiet and reserved, wrapped in her robe, hair in a low ponytail. Natasha watches her shut off the kettle and pour the water into the teapot.

"You're doing this for her," Sherlock whispers in her ear, coming up behind her. He's tall, so much taller than her, but it isn't intimidating when she knows she can bring him down without really trying. "It's not love," he continues. "It's something more than that. Not just attraction, or lust, or physical need. You're trying to prove yourself."

"You're great at telling me what I already know," she laughs quietly. She spins to look up at Sherlock. He looks…tired. Bored. Disappointed.

"You're trying to atone for your sins," he continues.

"Yes, and," she tilts her head forward.

"You're…you owe her," he says suddenly, the lights finally shining in his eyes. "You owe her for saving you, for inspiring you, for keeping you going. So you'll stay with her, for now."

"It's all a game to you, isn't it?" Natasha moves away from Sherlock, back to the couch she woke up on. Irene is pouring the tea now; they'll come back any moment now. "You're bored with it. You miss having an equal."

"You're great at telling me what I already know," Sherlock says in a monotone, picking up his violin to twirl in his long fingers yet again.

"Irene's a mutant," Natasha blurts out, a moment before Irene and John come back into the room, oblivious of what's passed between them.

It's worth betraying her secret, just for the look on Sherlock's face.

*

It takes 48 hours before they can leave, 48 hours of pacing and avoiding Irene and sharpening her knives at the kitchen table to worry John Watson and Mrs. Hudson as much as possible. Finally, Sherlock shoves two train tickets in their hands and tells them they're safe to go. Natasha rolls her eyes when Irene isn't looking, as if she was waiting for _Sherlock Holmes'_ call to leave.

"Goodbye," Sherlock whispers into Irene's ear. She takes the opportunity to lean forward and kiss him on the cheek and Natasha looks away, accidentally locking eyes with John, who stares awkwardly down at his feet.

"It's been nice knowing you," John says, holding out a hand for her to shake. "I mean, it's been nice to meet you," he stutters. When she doesn't take his hand, he lets it fall to his side.

"It's been interesting," she says, glancing at Sherlock, who has stepped smartly back from Irene.

"That it has," Sherlock says slowly. He hands Irene her suitcase and smiles, a forced expression that doesn't suit him at all.

"Make sure he behaves," Irene says sternly to John with a wink.

"I will, th--" John splutters a little and clears his throat.

With that, Irene pulls Natasha onto the train with her. They don't look back out the window as it leaves the station, chugging away underneath their feet, but Irene finally slides off her shoes and folds her legs up underneath her. She leans over, onto Natasha's shoulder, and closes her eyes.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. Natasha brings up a hand to pet her head and shushes her.

"No," she says. " _I'm_ sorry." For the first time in a long time, she means it.

Natasha lets Irene fall asleep on her shoulder in the uncomfortable train seat and glares at anyone being loud enough to wake her.

*

They're halfway through Germany when Natasha notices the man. He's been there for awhile, an addition at their last stop, and he's been glancing not-so-subtly at Natasha for the past half hour. He's strong, stronger than her, dressed in a suit and a blood red tie. She thinks she recognizes him, almost, as though she'd seen him before in something like a dream…

Natasha shakes Irene awake and taps her on the wrist twice in warning. Irene's eyes widen and she sits up straight, hand immediately going for the gun hidden at her side.

"I'm headed for the loo, dear," Natasha says in a fake English accent, and makes sure to trail past the man on her way out. He follows her, as predicted, and Natasha only feels a little guilty for leaving Irene alone.

The narrow hall is empty, and she means to turn on him and stab her dagger into his back. He stops her though, pounces and twists the knife from her grip. She tries to swing around him and bring him to his knees, but he catches her again. She sprains her wrist in the process and lets out a sharp cry that she tries to muffle, but the man grabs the hurt wrist in his firm grip and twists it behind her back, forcing Natasha into the tiny bathroom while holding her own dagger to her throat.

"It's been a long time, Widow," he whispers in her ear in a thick Russian accent he isn't even trying to hide. She squirms against him, but he doesn't relent at all. Natasha's mind races in a panic. _I can't get out of this,_ she thinks, _I can't help Irene._

"Yeah," she falters, not sure of what to say or do. She never lets herself be captured like this. Never. "Took a vacation, sorry."

To her surprise, he laughs, a low, dirty chuckle that makes the hair on the back of her neck stick up. He presses the knife even tighter against her throat.

"What do you think you're doing?" he says.

"What do you mean?" she says instantly. He grabs her by the back of her hair and knocks her head into the wall, hard. She can feel the blood form in the gash on her forehead and gasps in pain. She can't think, she can't breathe… _What would Irene do?_

"I thought I could run away," she gasps, clutching at straws, "I thought…I could deceive you. Guess I was wrong."

"So you were," he sneers, "as if you could ever run away from us!" She blinks away a drop of blood and opens her mouth to snap back when it hits her.

"It must be a flaw in your training, then," she says in a carefully measured tone.

"No, no," he spits, "it's the chip in your left arm." He laughs crudely, and Natasha suppresses her smirk. Okay. She can play this game.

"Damn," she curses.

"Precisely," he chuckles, "the great Black Widow, styling herself a consulting criminal. We'll take care of that. We'll squash the very thought out of you."  He pulls at her hair now, making her gasp as white lights filter into her vision.

"And Irene?" she breathes, wincing overdramatically in the little pain he's inflicting upon her, making herself look small and vulnerable and defeated.

"She will be handled." She can smell his breath as he smiles, taking one hand off her to bring his phone up to his ear in one instant-- Natasha spins, turning the dagger back onto him, stabbing and ducking and twisting -- and slumping over, dead, in the next.

The phone hits the ground. She smashes it with her heel.

Natasha takes a moment to breathe, to flip the lights on in the bathroom, and looks at the man. She doesn't remember him, but she doesn’t remember them putting a chip in her arm, either. She looks around the bathroom frantically, looking for any kind of metal, before her eyes fall over the broken cell phone at her feet. She picks it up, turns it over in her hand, and throws it to the floor again. She smashes it with her heel once again and bends over to pick it up. Natasha picks up the metal plate and battery and squints at them for a moment before reaching for the first aid kit. Her heart pounds in her ears as she feels in her arm for the chip, hoping that it's even big enough to feel underneath the skin. It is.

She emerges from the bathroom seconds later, the metal from the phone wrapped over the chip with gauze, eyes wild and adrenaline pumping. She races back to Irene, dagger hidden behind her back for anyone waiting.

"Are you okay?" she says when she gets to Irene, ignoring the stares of the other passengers as she stows her dagger away.

"Are you--?" Irene starts, looking up to the blood on her forehead and he gauze on her arm.

"Come on," she says, grabbing for her bag and Irene's hand. Irene does the same, and she pulls her out of the car, ignoring the woman who stands up and starts screeching at her.

They're slowing, nearing a platform. The man's attack was timed perfectly; Natasha can easily make out the men waiting for them on the platform.

"We're going to have to jump," she says as the train slows. She throws open a door and glances at Irene, who gulps. "Try to roll a bit, and stay off the other tracks."

"I don't--" Irene protests, but Natasha positions her bag so that it's in front of her.

"You'll be fine," she says softly, lying through her teeth, "it won't hurt; it's going faster than it looks. Trust me." Irene turns to her, eyes wide, and then jumps out of the train. Natasha follows her instantly, shutting the door behind her as she jumps.

"Irene?" Natasha says as she gets to her feet, groaning at the pain in her back and head. Irene is lying on the dusty ground a few feet away. Behind them, the train is slowly moving past, but they'll lose their cover in a minute. "Irene, come on, are you alright?' she says urgently, rushing to Irene's side to help her to her feet.

"It's…" she moans, holding her head, eyes focused and far away as she looks up at Natasha.

"What can you see?" Natasha says as gently as she can, even though her heart is beating wildly in her chest and she knows they have to move.

"Paris," Irene breathes, "he's in Paris."

"Who?" Natasha asks.

"The -- the target -- and someone else, someone --" Her eyes go clear as she looks straight up at Natasha and pulling her in for a quick kiss.

"We're going to Paris, dear," she says, getting to her feet with a wide, red smile. "That's where the next target is."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this story. I never intended it to be this long, but I've loved writing it. Please let me know what you think!
> 
> Natasha and Irene's story will be concluded in the next installment in my Sherlock/Avengers 'verse, when they finally cross paths with Clint and Phil from Shot in the Dark. That fic is in the works and will appear within the next month or two. I'm sorry for not updating sooner, life is getting in the way.


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